


Things You Call Excuses

by Grinner_H



Series: Soulmates [7]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9264473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: For this prompt :There wasn’t a soulmate system in place before, now it’s about a thousand and more years later, and—wait, aren’t you the person that killed me in that back alley?(selected byAshfromSoulmate AU Story Ideas).





	1. Ira

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt : _There wasn’t a soulmate system in place before, now it’s about a thousand and more years later, and—wait, aren’t you the person that killed me in that back alley?_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[Soulmate AU Story Ideas](https://silentpeaches.tumblr.com/post/125291322610/soulmate-au-story-ideas)** ).

You remember the boy. 

He was… ten. Perhaps thirteen. Maybe eighteen and too little for his age. 

You don't know why, but it is important that you remember how old he was. Only, you _don't._ You never knew his age. You never knew his name. 

But you remember this. Dark hair framing a pretty face, hanging limp upon narrow shoulders. Cigarette burns decorating his chest, his torso. Bruises along his ribs. Blood. On his mouth. His hands. Between his legs. 

And there was a man. 

You remember him too. The muzzle of your gun pressed against his temple. The tremble in his voice. Fear. The sound of your own voice, thick with disgust. And in your gut, _rage._

You remember the shiver up your spine as you squeezed the trigger. Excitement. Blowing his brains out, even while he was still on top of the boy. 

He was a vile man. An unimportant man, a rotten man, a dead man, and the world a better place for it. 

But once, he was a valued man. A loyal man. A useful man, a cared-for subordinate.

You remember pulling his corpse off the child, the tempestuous mix of regret, anger, revulsion churning violently beneath your skin, singing through your bones. 

And you remember looking at the boy. Rail-thin and blood-speckled and _beautiful,_ breath leaving his body in harsh, pained gasps. His posture, broken. Cloaked in shame. His arm, reaching out. Bony fingers in a trembling grip around the edge of your trench coat. And his eyes, desperate. Pleading. 

_" **Please.** Please kill me too."_

—

Once, in a life before this one, amid the filth of a damp alleyway in some dismal corner of Palermo's red-light district, you murdered two people.

A man who had served you, and the boy who was his brother.

A boy whose eyes brimmed with gratitude and relief as you pulled the trigger for the second time that night.

A boy who - many lifetimes later - you would not forget.


	2. Lussuria

His hair is lustrous now. Long and velvet smooth, black like midnight. Spilling down his back like an onyx waterfall. His build is slender, leanly muscled. There is strength in his spine, in the set of his shoulders. Heat in his dark brown eyes. 

But there is no recognition. 

The boy doesn't remember you.

In this life, he wears the skin of a man. And you would like to think that, even if he doesn't remember, he _knows_ you now.

Knows your iron grip in his hair. The wayward trail of your teeth marks along his spine. Your words in his ear. Your cock in _him._ The feel of your mahogany desk chafing his skin as you fuck him upon it, ruthless and hard.

And the boy, the man, _Fei Long,_ is a greedy, needy thing beneath your hands. He looks over his shoulder at you, desire battling pride in his darkened irises. His mouth is open around sounds of loud pleasure. You shove two of your fingers in it. Your left hand is a bruising grip upon his hip. 

"Say my name," you command, thrusts slowing, then quickening in a way that's guaranteed to render him incoherent. 

But he's your right-hand, ever dutiful, always _yours,_ so he says it, muffled around your fingers. _"Boss."_

Says, _"Takaba."_

—

When you found him in this life, he was as broken as he once was, covered in blood and filth and cum.

The five men who had hurt him were civilians. You'd had no compunction in killing them.

Some things, you had bitterly discovered, never change.

But some things do.

In exchange for his life, he had given you his loyalty. 

Ten years ago, he became a part of your Family. Ten years ago, he became _yours._

He was sixteen.


	3. Gola

It's always different with Asami. You know him too well, known him all your life. Family alliances have a way of ensuring that. 

With Asami, you go way back. And it's always these missions you shouldn't be doing, because that's what subordinates are fucking _for,_ always _want, want, want._

Because you _can't_ resist it - that crazy, dizzy rush that courses through your veins every time you pull the trigger. Bullets ripping through flesh and vein and bone. Bodies hitting the floor, blood and smoke and fear all over.

And afterward. 

Afterward, it's the fumbling of belt buckles, the hard yank of zippers, the press of your cock against his. The desperate hiss through his teeth. His hard grip upon your nape, as if he's trying to strangle you backward. His mouth against yours. 

It isn't a kiss. It's this biting, tearing thing - all teeth and the taste of your mingled blood. Asami kisses you like possession and murder, kisses you in the way that leaves you unwilling to resist. 

And you don't. 

You never do, because with Asami, it's always _take, take, take._

His hand finds its way beneath your shirt, but he doesn't take it off. You never let him. And it's always like this : clothes on and cocks out, your fist that's tight around both of you, his grip that'll leave bruises along your flank for days. 

You have him pressed against the wall, bucking hips and rapid fire heartbeats. Your thumb runs along the head of his cock, then yours, a sticky trail of mingled precum. Everything's mingled here - blood and breath and electric heat. His hungry, amused gaze matches yours. You lick the sweat from the sharp mound of his Adam's apple to the point of his chin. Your grin is a wild, sick thing.

The air is charged with death and adrenaline. Asami is a crushing grip against the base of your hairline, against your ribcage, a sharp intake of breath. Then, the brutal forward snap of his hips, the pulsing heat of his hard cock, his cum on your hand. He doesn't breathe your name.

You can feel the lifeless eyes of the dead upon you. Your fist tightens in a too-painful grip and you come, groaning Asami's name like you haven't got anyone else's.

—

Later, it's a rough, hard fuck in the open, atop the hood of your Lamborghini. 

You wonder what - _who_ \- Asami thinks about when he fucks you. 

You wonder why, in all your previous lifetimes, you'd never met him even once.


	4. Avarizia

This is a thing you know : there is no greater humiliation than sucking a cock, no greater pleasure than having your own cock sucked. 

And Fei Long is an obedient little thing, his lips wrapped tight around you, his fingers encircling the base of your cock, caressing your balls, places where his mouth can't reach.

The silky grain of his tongue is hot and wet against the aching hardness of your shaft. He looks up at you from beneath his pretty, long lashes; his are eyes hazed with devotion and pleasured heat.

It is a heady, addictive thing, watching him. Watching the way your cock disappears into his mouth; sensual, languid, _mindblowingly erotic._ Watching the way he doesn't stop watching _you._

You will never stop craving this. 

Fei Long, on his knees, cloaked in nothing but his unflagging loyalty. Dignity surrendered and pride be damned. He is a beautiful, rapacious thing; cheeks filled with color and mouth full of your cock. His own cock looks painfully erect, his precum forming a wet spot on the carpet. 

This is a high like no other - knowing that he _wants_ this, _enjoys_ this as much as you. His pride is an offering you do not hesitate to take. In two lifetimes, you have seen him at his worst. And ever has he stubbornly clung to his mask of unflappability in the face of this nightmare you've dragged him into (there are no saccharine delusions here, he has traded one Hell for another, and you've never been anything but honest about it).

And this is what unadulterated pleasure is. Your fingers in a possessive grip upon his hair. The mad thrusts of your hips. This frenzied fucking of his pretty, willing mouth. The power and control you bear, even while he makes you lose yourself beneath his touch, within his slick heat.

It is never enough. 

—

Once, he had asked, _"What would you take from me?"_

Once, you had said, _"What would you be willing to give?"_


	5. Invidia

There is something wrong with this picture.

There's Asami, smoking on the steps of your safe house in Buttfuck, Moldavia. 

And Fei Long, by his side. Open book upon his lap like he's on some goddamn summer vacation (never mind the gun secured in his thigh holster, the blade tucked into his boot).

This is such an ordinary scene. Asami's an ally and - even though you don't often admit it - the best friend you've got. You've known him all your _life,_ for fuck's sake.

And Fei Long's your right-hand. It's only _natural_ that they interact.

Somewhere inside you, in the part that's still halfway _rational,_ you're aware that you shouldn't thoroughly hate this. But you _do._

You hate the way they look at each other. 

The thing is, Asami _shouldn't_ be making Fei Long smile like that. Shouldn't be looking at him with eyes like that. Eyes that speak of _interest,_ of _want._

You know. That's the way he always looks at _you._

And Fei Long, he shouldn't be looking like he wants Asami too (he's only supposed to ever want _you_ ).

The thing that's wrong about this picture is, they aren't looking at you at all. 

—

This is another thing you hate : Asami Ryuuichi - magnificent _bastard_ that he is - leaning against the edge of your office desk, drinking your whiskey, regarding you with this supercilious, knowing look that never fails to drive you goddamn _insane._

"Don't you have your _own_ dogs to play with, Asami?" Ignore the way your hand shakes when you pour yourself a drink. Ignore the tremor in your voice that speaks of barely contained ire. 

"Is that all he is to you, Akihito? A _dog._ " Asami's tone is smooth, seemingly nonchalant. To anyone else, he would seem uncaring. 

But you aren't anyone else. You _know_ the danger in that tone, know that there are few things in this universe that could drive Asami to this level of wrath.

And here's another thing you know : you're the only person in this universe who wouldn't be cowed by his rage. You take a sip of your whiskey, loosen your tie. "I know _exactly_ what he is to me. What is he to _you?_ "

Asami shoots you a look. One that clearly reads, _You are an idiot._ "He's your right-hand. He is the same to me as Kirishima is to you."

It's not the first time Asami has ever lied to you, but this is the first lie you truly hate. You can't help but snort in disgust. "I do not wish to _fuck_ Kirishima."

You'll never understand how Asami rolls his eyes at you without actually _doing_ it. "I'm sure the sentiment is returned," he intones drily. Fucking bastard doesn't even _try_ to appear self-conscious about any of this.

It's not like you're fucking _exclusive._ Asami's not so different from you - you've spent _years_ fucking other people and fucking them over. This is the life you were born into, and it's a life you wouldn't trade for anything. Feelings complicate things, that's just the way it is. And you've always done a splendid job of avoiding unnecessary entanglements. 

So you don't know why you're having a problem with this _now._

You don't know why you want them to only see _you._


	6. Superbia

He is leaving you. 

Or rather, you are _making_ him leave.

And it hurts. Of course, it goddamn _does,_ but this is for the best. This is what's best for _him,_ and you _know_ that, even if he doesn't realize it himself. 

You can't bear to look at him, but you force yourself to meet his gaze anyway. You owe him at least that. 

His are eyes troubled, plagued with confusion and incredulity and anger. There is so much pain in them. Hurt and accusatory, like you've betrayed him. Guilt and desperation. He hides his face behind a mask of dispassion, but you've _always_ been able to read his eyes. 

And you know what he's thinking. 

That he isn't good enough. That he failed you. That he isn't _worthy_ of his place by your side, even if he wants so desperately to remain.

And you wish you could tell him how wrong he is. How erroneous to think that, because that's _not_ why you're making him leave. 

Your gaze travels to his chest. It's hidden by the dark fabric of his suit, but you _know_ it's there - the bullet wound beneath the bandages. You can still see it, see _him_ \- crumpled on the ground like a wounded animal, bleeding out. The hole in his chest - too fucking _close_ to his heart - where he'd taken a bullet in your stead. 

_He could have died._

And you're making him leave because you're a selfish creature who cannot _bear_ to watch him die. Not this time. You've taken his life once. You will _not_ be the source of his death again.

So you pull him against you, aggressively slant your mouth against his. You bite his tongue. Learn the taste of him all over again, like you haven't got it memorized already. 

And you give him your final order.

—

"It is the job of your men to protect you," Asami states the obvious like it's supposed to _mean_ anything, exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke that is as dark as you feel. 

You tilt your head up to stare at the sky. The light of the morning sun stings, but you force yourself to keep looking anyway. "You would have felt the same, if it were Kirishima or Suoh." 

_Or any of your men,_ you do not need to add. Asami hides behind his pride as much as you do, but you _know_ that there is no leader who cares for his subordinates as deeply as he does. 

You can feel his contemplative gaze upon you. It burns deeper, more intense than the sun in your eyes. Naturally, you turn to face him. _"What?"_

Asami chuckles. It is mirthless and ironic. " _If you love something, set it free,_ huh?"

An indignant scoff escapes your lips. "I do not _love_ him, Asami."

He quirks an eyebrow at you, clearly disbelieving. "You _don't._ " 

It is an enviable talent - the way he makes a simple statement sound flat and disparaging all at once.

You run your hand through your hair, sighing in frustration. "He's been with me since he was _sixteen,_ y'know? And before…" You shake your head, fists clenching at the foul memories you've never been able to shake. It makes your blood boil every fucking time. "He's never had a chance at having a normal life. He's not _like_ us, Asami, he isn't _made_ for this." You kick a pebble. Your laugh is a bitter, broken thing. "Just a goddamn fucking _kid_ playing at being grownup."

"A kid who swore his life to you," Asami unhelpfully points out. "A man who thought it an honor to save _yours,_ even at the cost of his own."

The sound of your own laughter grates on your ears. "You're such a fucking _bastard,_ Asami." You grab his necktie and forcefully tug him forward. And you kiss him to shut him the fuck _up._

You kiss him because there is nothing left but useless, empty words that you do not wish to say.


	7. Accidia

This life has lost its meaning. 

It's a strange thought, a _pathetic_ thought, one that shouldn't have a place in your mind. But it's always there, at the forefront. 'Round and 'round and 'round like a goddamn Ouroboros. 

Life without Fei Long in it isn't much different. You issue orders. You sign papers. You negotiate and delegate, make payments and assign assassinations when required. And, often against the counsel and better judgment of your men, you indulge. In murder. In carnage. In the thrill of battle and blood and chaos. 

You tempt Death. You cheat it. And the world is a malicious thing. It continues to turn, heedless of your will. Of your desire to make time just fucking _stop,_ if only so you wouldn't have to count all the moments of your existence without _him_ in it.

And Asami. 

His is a constant presence in your life. You still talk. You still lead. You still bathe the world in blood and fuck among the corpses. He only looks at you now, but it isn't enough. 

It never _was_ enough.

—

Four years on, Takato places a postcard on your desk. He gives you a knowing look - one that doesn't annoy you half as much as Asami's - and quietly slips out of your office. 

The postcard bears a grayscale photograph of the Piazza Pretoria. On its back, is a single sentence; written in an elegant script you will never fail to recognize. 

_I was eleven._

A single thought worms its way into your mind. Again and again like it's trying to match the sudden, accelerated beat of your heart.

_He remembers._

You can't help but laugh like a fucking lunatic at the irony of it all.


	8. Rinascita

In this life, you are twenty-five. Reckless and intrepid and too goddamn eager to consume everything the world has to offer.

Some would call you a photographer. _You_ would call yourself an _artist,_ the evidence of which hangs here upon these walls of the renowned Dracaena Gallery.

You are leaning over the second floor balcony, watching the incoming visitors through your most cherished camera. You've always preferred observing others from a distance; seeking inspiration, finding beauty in places often overlooked.

The sound of approaching footsteps reaches your ears, but you do not care to turn around. You know those steps well. Asami Ryuuichi, owner and curator of this very gallery, joins you, lighting one of his ever-present cigarettes. "Shouldn't you be down there with your adoring fans, Akihito? _Socializing,_ instead of taking their pictures?"

You lower the camera, grinning at your best friend. "You know I'm an introvert at heart, Ryuu."

 _"Besides,"_ you add loudly, over Asami's incredulous scoff, "you should always leave room for people to surprise you. And the best surprises often happen in places like this one."

Asami stares at you, somewhere between appalled and amused. "In art galleries?"

Your grin widens into something that's part mischievous, part feral. You can't help but grace him with a cheeky wink. "In lofty places."

Asami chuckles, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, _"Fucking crazy artist."_

You playfully sock him on the shoulder before returning your gaze to the crowd that's steadily making their way into the building. 

And there is one among them who instantly catches your eye. 

Quickly, you raise your camera, searching for him in your viewfinder. A head full of long, dark hair. White shirt, blue jeans. Backpack hanging off his left shoulder. A young man, on his way to your photo exhibition. You don't have to wonder how old he is. You don't have to find out his name. It's the same in every life.

You watch him through the tiny frame of your viewfinder, holding him captive. You snap a picture. 

Beside you, you hear Asami's irritatingly knowing, _"Ah, found something you like?"_

You ignore him in favor of staring at the young man; entranced, because he is looking up and _staring right back at you._

You lower your camera, your naked gaze meeting his.

Recognition dances across his dark brown eyes.

And he _smiles._

—

You remember the boy. 

And the boy remembers you.


End file.
